Family life

Friday 10 September 2010 19.05 EDT
First published on Friday 10 September 2010 19.05 EDT

Snapshot: Tin hats and driving helmets

This picture is of my brother, aged around four, in 1941 in east London. I was born a year later. He is obviously proud of the air-raid protection helmet he is wearing.

My father, Sidney Greene, was one of only two one-armed motor-racing drivers in England before the second world war (the other was Archie Scott-Brown), and was a squadron leader in the RAF during the war. He had become a pilot despite his disability, which earned him the nickname "Wingless Wonder". My brother, Keith, also went on to become a Formula One racing driver, and then a well-respected team manager.

I have only dim memories of the war, being so young, but mainly they are of being afraid of the sound of planes overhead, because, living in South Woodford, we were aware of bombs dropping in the neighbourhood.

I think I remember going down into the shelter dug deep in the lawn in the back garden – but that may only come from being told about it.

My brother now lives in the Isle of Wight, where he sails and plays golf, peaceful and free, thanks to those – like my father – who fought so hard to win the war. Carol Norris

Playlist: Salute to a kind SuperDad

Nobody Does It Better by Carly Simon "Nobody does it better/Makes me feel sad for the rest/Nobody does it half as good as you/Baby, you're the best"

The night our first baby was born, my husband stopped for petrol on the way home. It was back in the days when the attendant did it for you. He handed the change to my husband, with the words: "Bless you, sir, and your sons as yet unborn."

We laughed about it and went to bed. About an hour later, my waters broke. By 3am, it was time to go to the hospital. We called in the cats, and I handed my husband his special present. I knew by his face that he didn't like it, but didn't want to hurt my feelings. It was a black T-shirt I'd had made with the words "Nobody does it better" on the front and "SuperDad" on the back. He struggled into it, and I saw the relief on his face when they handed him a white robe as he entered the delivery suite and he could cover up the T-shirt. I could still hear Carly Simon's voice in my head, though. It kept me going – nobody was doing half as good as me, I reckoned.

Our son was born, blessed as promised. As they wheeled me along to the ward, John walked in front, cradling his tiny baby. Clear as day, through the flimsy white fabric, I could see the word "SuperDad". It made me laugh. When our second son arrived a couple of years later, I had no time for such nonsense, and the said T-shirt had been sent to the charity shop.

John is a super dad, and my lads are blessed to have him. Any time I hear the song, I think back to that night, to the excitement and fear, his kindness in wearing the T-shirt, and the moment when I watched his back and realised there was someone in this world more important than either of us. Penny Ward

We love to eat: A fried Scottish breakfast

For us children growing up in Glasgow, fry-ups on a Saturday morning were a regular part of our weekend. There was a particular format that accompanied this, meted out by my father, who would haul us out of bed at an unearthly hour to help him prepare our fry-up feast. A man who was not given to gushy gestures or sentimentality, he insisted that our mum had breakfast in bed on a Saturday, lovingly prepared by himself … and us kids.

There were kettles for us to boil, bread to butter, sausages to prick and black pudding to fry. Scottish black pudding has a sweetness and density all of its own and, oozing with butter and fat in a floury bap, topped with tomato ketchup, it was a hard breakfast to beat.

The final flourish from Dad would be to murder an egg – a flash-fried affair that, at best, was burned round the outside and always raw in the middle. But we helped him set the tray for Mum, and he would take it upstairs and present it to her while we wolfed down our grease-laden treats in front of Saturday morning cartoons.

Being brought up on such a fatty and meaty diet, I decided to rebel in my late teens. As a result, I was a diehard vegetarian for more than 20 years. I never quite made it to being vegan, being too fond of dairy and egg products, but have always maintained my stance on not eating meat. More recently I have been known to eat the odd bit of seafood, but never a sliver of animal passed my lips.

A couple of years ago, I went back to Glasgow with my partner for the weekend. On the Saturday morning, we went in search of breakfast in a nearby cafe. As I contemplated the menu, my partner's eyes settled on the Scottish breakfast option. "I could just do with a fry-up," he drooled.

When his breakfast arrived, sat on the side of the plate was a huge slice of Scottish black pudding. "Yuck, how can anyone eat that stuff?" he sneered, pushing it on to a side plate.

My mouth started to water. The very smell of it was enticing and, before I realised it, I had cut a little piece off the side and popped it into my mouth, in front of his incredulous eyes. "What are you doing?" he gasped. Too late.

As the grease and that sweet flavour exploded over my tongue, I was transported back to Dad and his breakfasts, watching the Top Cat cartoons in my pyjamas, the greasy washing-up and Mum appearing with an empty tray some time later.

I couldn't help myself – one squeeze of ketchup and I'd eaten the whole thing. I had to call Mum and tell her, such was my own surprise and lack of regret.

"Scottish black pudding – ye cannae whack it," she said, laughing. "And there's you supposed to be a vegetarian, too. Your dad used to force these breakfasts on me on a Saturday morning. And do you know what the worst bit of it was? He couldn't cook an egg to save his life!"

I tried a bit of English black pudding recently. It just wasn't the same. Jeanie Lynch

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